


The Rise and Fall of the Parson/Zimmermann Duo

by lapoubella



Series: Not everything's a competition [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alicia is a sweetheart, Angst, Angst and Humor, Anxiety Disorder, Britney Spears Mention, Canon Compliant, Closeted Character, Drug Abuse, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Junior Hockey, M/M, Moving On, Overdosing, Pimms - Freeform, Pre-Canon, Suicide Attempt, Symbolism, but by No means do you actually have to like him, it's made angsty bc it's all in the past u feel, parsepositive, past pimms, very 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 12:24:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13294827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapoubella/pseuds/lapoubella
Summary: “I don’t know why the fuck you had to keep your stash in my bag,” he snarls out after a heady moment. “They think I helped you, fucking...”overdose?Kent’s shaking. His adrenaline has nowhere to go and he hates it and he won’t look anywhere but the floor. "It’s a good thing that’s the only shit they found. They might hold me from the draft, if they find anything else - incriminating.” He laughs, cruelly. “Nobody's ever OD’d on pills like this in the League before. They don’t know what to do with it.”OR: Within two weeks, Jack overdoses, drops out of the draft, and pushes Kent of out his life. Within two weeks, Kent says a lot of things that he means to his best friend in a way he regrets, becomes a Las Vegas Ace, and starts on the long process of moving on. In between, Kent remembers that things weren't always like this - they used to be good together.





	The Rise and Fall of the Parson/Zimmermann Duo

Jack hadn’t been doing well, Kent knew that much. But then again, nobody was - it was the week before the NHL draft. Yorky has already snapped two sticks today - and he was easily the best collected out of all of his teenaged, hormonal, and overworked teammates. And Maserati hasn’t spoken more than three word sentences in the past month (though he was never much of a talker.)

The Quebec Junior League wasn’t easy to get into either - Kent, now a prized possession, had almost been passed up entirely. And boy, is the Junior League and evil little thing. All the players - kids! - scrap around, making big bucks, and they never get more than loose change for it. Rich kids like Jack don’t mind, and Kent doesn’t either, truthfully, as long as he plays. Even his dad didn’t _really_ mind - Q was the best chance for his boy’s natural talent - but Mr. Parson’s bank balance... his bank balance had really minded.

The other tough, evil little thing about the Junior Leagues? The thing that makes its draft, and the National League’s draft, so different? You didn’t come back from Junior Leagues, not really. You spend two years, two whole years living on ice and bathing in it, inhaling five meals a day and protein powder, taping yourself up where it hurts the most and going right back into the game. You can’t go to just any college after that: just think of it, Kent Parson doesn’t have (and never will have) a continuous education past sophomore year of high school. To Kill a Mockingbird was the last book Kent’s actually read all the way through. And since the Junior League is pro, American college teams won’t fucking touch him after it.

You’d have to be absolutely out of your mind to dive into a dream like that. And that's part of the reason Parson loves Hockey so much, and loves his teammates on the Oceanic: they’re all fucking crazy in the exact same way.

At least if you don’t make the cut for Junior Leagues, for Q, you can go back, pick another route, leave sports on the backburner. It might hurt, but it’s no derailer. But if you make it into Q, and the NHL passes you up, after you’ve come this far, and dedicated this much time, you’ve got a handful of shitty options and a huge gap in your CV. Kent doesn’t want that. Jack doesn’t. Yorky sure as hell doesn’t.

Not that any of that matters. Parson is gonna make it: he’s been kicking and screaming and skating too long and too hard not to.

Jack said something once, that week before the NHL draft, the week before they split and headed to their separate teams. He wasn’t as sure as Parse about the draft, so he puffed himself up. He said what he had to to make himself sure - “It’s a sure thing, you know” - and Zimmermann’s voice carried that way it does. And even though Kent agreed with every word of it, Zimms really should have put a sock in it until later.

Yorke snapped his third stick that day and glided over. The worst part about it? He didn’t even yell. “You know what Zimmerman? Maybe nobody wants copycat. Maybe you’ll get drafted, but you won’t be anybody’s first pick - nah, it’ll be to some dying franchise that needs a facelift. And you’ll play, sure, but it won’t make a damn bit of difference to your team’s scores; you’re helpless without your little fuck-buddy.” Yorke reached past Jack to grab another stick, and continued with that same, even voice. “You don’t know what the fuck a team is, and that’s why all your money and talent and Bad Bob blood mean shit.” And he pushed back off the boards.

Belatedly, Kent yelled back “I can’t believe you believe that shit”, but his shaking hands told another story.

For his part, Jack didn’t move a muscle for a good minute. Then, a slow smile spread across his face. “Looks like Yorky found out he’s not getting picked. He’s not taking it well, is he?”

**_/ _X_ \\_**

Kent didn’t think it mattered - Yorke hadn’t drawn any extra attention, Jack recovered from it quickly, everything remained on track. They would go in for their interviews, Jack would go first, and Parse would be his second. Sure, strangers had been betting on draft order of the Parson-Zimmerman pair for a years now, and countless message boards tore at Kent in comparison with his generationally famous partner - and even others took bets on where on the Kinsey scale Jack and Kent land - but none of it mattered. It didn’t even matter that Parse and Zimms would be split and sent to different teams - guys from Juniors never stopped being friends. That shit was for a lifetime. None of it mattered because Jack Zimmerman would be there. Because Jack Zimmermann sometimes bit at his nails and cried at night and forgot how to breathe, but Kent Parson would hold him through it, and Jack Zimmermann was always okay.

But that was the last conversation Parse had with him. As soon as they got back to their host family, Jack brushed him off so spectacularly. And an hour later, Kent finds him on the bathroom floor. Little blue pills, the same color as those soft blue eyes, are fanned out above his dark, dark hair like a halo. The scariest thing to Kent is not the fact that those soft blue eyes are closed, but just how few pills lay on the floor, and how many must be in Zimms.

**_/ _X_ \\_**

Turns out it was six. Six little anti-anxiety meds Parse didn’t even know Jack had. With a name Parse can’t even pronounce. That sneaky, secretive little bastard. And Parse - Parse is just an idiot for not noticing any of it - and thinks this over and over again.

He insists on waiting after Jack’s dropped off at the hospital, even though he knows they won’t take visitors for hours and hours and it’s totally out of Parse’s hands at this point, isn’t it? But he can’t stand to go back to their shared room and see Jack’s empty bunk. So he rocks back and forth on a waiting room chair for an hour or two, hands carding through his hair, taunting himself with how much of an idiot he is. Try as he might, he can’t remember ever seeing Jack take any fucking pills that weren’t fucking aspirin.

They take him back home. But Parse knows it’s not fucking home, and he knows they aren’t treating him like the seventeen year old he fucking _is_ because they keep asking him _if he knew_ and he keeps saying _no_ , and they just keep asking him.

**_/ _X_ \\_**

Jack’s awake and sullen, but at least he’s awake and not that deathly pale Kent saw him in last. Jack’s parents are there, too. They’ve folded themselves into two tiny chairs, and though Kent’s spent holidays with them, he still thinks of them as king and queen. And god, this place isn’t fit for royalty. Even Kent can see they clearly aren’t on speaking terms with each other.

Their eyes aren’t soft like Jack’s are, not under this harsh light, not rimmed with red, and especially not when they’re thinking what everyone else on the planet thinks about Kent right now. Kent’s convinced at least one of them thinks _he knew_. He tries not to shake. He tries not to look at Jack for help, not that Jack’s looking anywhere except resolutely out the window, right now.

But Bad Bob just nods at him. “Son,” he says from his seat, looking at Kent, and meaning it for Kent. Kent’s mouth hangs open at that.

Alicia gets up to kiss Jack’s forehead, and god, Jack looks so small in that bed, Kent almost wants to laugh. Pillows and blankets swallow him up, guard rails and IV’s cage him in; Jack may as well be in a crib.

Alicia turns. “I’ll give you two some time alone,” she says with her hand on Kent’s.

They leave him with Jack without question or fuss. Kent now thinks the both of them know something else, about that thing Jack and Kent both know about each other. That thing they share, off the ice. And Kent doesn’t know which he would prefer Jack’s parents to believe, but it doesn’t matter, because Jack’s finally looking at him.

It’s obvious Jack isn’t going first in this conversation, so Kent just says “You look kinda like a baby right now.”

Jack’s taken aback, but his dry humor and deadpan don’t fail him. “Oh. I really hope not.”

“Yeah.” Kent rocks back on his heels, and looks away. “You were a pretty fugly baby.” And he bites his tongue, “Not that you’re fugly now, it’s just the...” Kent looks back up, and he deflates. “Why the fuck did you do this to yourself?”

“I just.” Jack’s words stall, and he huffs, as if Kent even asking for an explanation is just too much of an inconvenience. “I’ve been trying to explain for as long as I’ve been conscious but, I. I can’t say it was an accident.”

Kent reaches a chair, and collapses into it. And he can see Jack expects him to say something, but it’s all he can do to shake his head.

“I don’t know what to say,” Jack offers, but all Kent can hear is a distant _Please Parse, you know I’m not good with words_ , whispered in their first night together. And Kent’s fucking furious.

“I don’t know why the fuck you had to keep your stash in my bag,” he snarls out after a heady moment. “They think I helped you, fucking...” overdose? Kill himself? Get over some pre-game jitters? Kent’s shaking. His adrenaline has nowhere to go and he hates it and he won’t look anywhere but the floor.

Jack softens those blue eyes, and murmurs how it had nothing to do with Kent, he just _needed_ the pills and he was so paranoid someone would find him out and it was just a convenience thing, really. But he doesn’t say sorry. Sorry wouldn’t have helped the situation any.

Kent just sniffs and wipes his nose. “Yeah, well. It’s a good thing our PR is so good. And that that’s the only shit they found. They might hold me from the draft, if they find anything else - incriminating.” He laughs, cruelly. “Nobodies ever OD’d on pills like this in the League before. They don’t know what to do with it. But you know? I respect it. If you get held back, it only makes sense I should too.”

Jack really does pull back, then. Hockey, the circus the media must be having...will be having with this. Held back? His career is as good as dead. Jack knows it, Bob knows it, and Kent has just realized it.

“Jack... I thought you wanted to play. I thought we were going up, together.”

And Jack just sits and looks, sits and looks at Parson like he’s nothing and says nothing. And Kent looks up at Jack and sees it, how blank he is - Kent’s never known what to do, when he gets like that. But it’s fine, it’s all fine.

Kent just sighs, and wipes at his eyes for a minute, and tries out a couple deep breaths. Jack still isn’t speaking - he’s somewhere else entirely, right now - but that’s fine. Kent drags his chair up to the bed and sneaks his hands under the guardrails until he finds Zimm’s; he rubs a light circle on the skin of Jack’s wrist while the air conditioning hums away in the corner of the room.

When Bob and Alicia come back in, Kent is asking if he should bring Jack something to do while he’s in here (“All your stuff is still with the billet. You know. Lots of books. Better than staring at a wall, maybe?”) When Jack fails to reply, Alicia says yes, that would be lovely. Kent leaves with a mission, at least.

**_/ _X_ \\_**

Bad Bob and his son, both, can’t stand having things handed to them. So Jack, more frugal than a fucking convent of nuns, spent every cent he saved on the shittiest sedan in existence (“SUV would’ve been better, but the fuel efficiency on this thing is amazing.”) The paint job is chipping, the bumper’s dinged, the upholstery in the back has got one long tear in it - the whole shebang - and Jack fucking loves her. To pop open the trunk, you have to find a lever around the driver's side, and to even get into the backseat, you have to play tetris with the passenger seat.

Jack calls the thing ‘she’ this and ‘ma copine’ that in casual conversation: some people still think he has a really questionable relationship with his girlfriend. (“Nah, her upkeep really doesn’t cost that much. Probably couldn’t afford her with just what the League’s paying us, though.” “Since Playoffs are starting up, I’m lending her to my cousin for a little while.” “I feel bad. Most of the time she just sits in the garage.”)

And Kent thinks, if he had more money than he could spend (like - cough - Bad Bob), he’d buy only the best. For himself, for his sons and daughters and friends, and hell, everyone he knows. But Jack’s just gotten his license, and he absolutely shines around that shitty little thing. That car, old enough to be in 5th grade, worms its way into Kent’s heart, too.

Whenever Jack and Kent need to sneak away for a little bit, to “watch some tapes”, Jack’s car’s the place. Half the time, the things that go on in that car can’t be called PG-13; the other half the time, they use her for food runs. (If they hit up Baton Rouge too much, it's only because they have to eat 5 times a day.)

Once, it’s almost a date. Kent’s turned up the radio - and Jack lets him, even though driver gets to pick - and Miley Cyrus’ singing out the second most patriotic song Kent knows, second only to the national anthem. And Kent’s singing along so, so awfully (it’s on purpose, he swears). And Jack just smiles...grimaces? No, he’s definitely smiling. And when hands meet in the center console, neither pull away - instead, they just enjoy the light touch.

Once they get to the restaurant, they do pull away, if only for necessity's sake. But then Kent asks Jack if he wants any of his chicken tenders, and Jack says yes, and they argue about whether or not chicken tenders taste better than nuggets (“They’re both processed chicken, dude.” “No, one’s got more surface area! Tell me if you’ve ever had a chicken nugget that wasn’t the dried to shit.”) and their feet meet under the table (and stay there). And it feels just like a real date.

**_/ _X_ \\_**

The next time Kent visits, Jack’s got a newspaper in his lap: looks like the presses got ahold of enough information to make Jack’s fall from grace more than a blurb, and enough sources to keep it from being total clickbait bullshit. The room is dead silent when he comes in, but from what he can read upside down, at least the headline stays hockey-focused instead of going straight for the metaphorical jugular. “Top NHL Prospect Leaves Draft” - not too awful, right?

Jack doesn’t seem to find solace in the little mercies, though, and he’s still in that fucking hospital gown. Kent knows right off the bat, he won’t be talking shop today. Honestly, if he’s looking for conversation, Jack isn’t the place to be. But it's the day before the draft and Kent really needs his best friend; he’s even willing to forget their last conversation.

Jack’s parents are off somewhere; signing paperwork, confirming Jack’s well enough to wear normal clothes again, Kent guesses. At least they’ve taken him off the IV.

Kent sits down, first thing, and when Jack finally looks up from whatever’s in that bullshit article (probably just finished rereading it for the fifth time), Kent lets out a soft “Hey.”

Jack tries a small smile. Good. So he doesn’t mind Parson’s there. No, he’s actually making an effort - he _wants_ Parson there. Kent tries to ignore what that realization does to him and his stomach.

Instead, Kent wonders, distantly, what else he can say: Hockey’s the only thing they have in common - not because Kent and Jack aren’t real friends, Kent tells himself, but because they have nothing else but hockey. Kent can’t talk about that at all, of course, but Zimms’ is upset, so Parse has to think of something. It’s a damn good thing Kent’s clever enough to handle it.

Jack’s always been a history nerd. After every win, loss - when they actually watch hockey tapes - it’s always “just like the fifth playoffs match between the Stars and Amerks in ‘82”. And yeah, Jack only ever cares enough to write goddamn dissertations on past hockey games, but Kent’s pretty sure... fun facts would be right up this nerd’s ally.

“Hey, uhm...” Kent swallows back a smirk; when his eyes start to skitter away, Jack knows something’s up. Kent pushes on, all the same - “You know you can actually...uh... Skydive without a parachute?”

“Oh... Really?” Jack decides he’ll humor him.

“Yeah! I just read it somewhere. It’s pretty uh... you know. I won’t say mind-blowing...” Kent struggles back a snort; that wasn’t a pun he meant to make. “Too bad you can only do it once.”

Jack bites at his lips to keep from smiling. When that fails, he throws the closest (soft) thing at Kent’s head. It bounces into Kent’s lap. This is how Kent comes face to face with a news analyst telling him that he’s now first pick, in 10pt font, right in the opening lines, which sure kills the delicate mood Kent had just managed to build. Jack clears his throat.

“Uh, yeah. There’s something I should tell you,” Jack says lightly; his voice has a gliding lilt to it, like a verbal figure skater. “My parents are trying to, well, get me into rehabilitation.” He cringes, just a bit, “They hate calling it ‘rehab’, its - crude... or some shit.”

Kent tosses the paper to the floor face down, where it can’t hurt them anymore, not in this room anyways, and with empty hands, he pats them on his thighs. “Well. That makes sense. You said you... needed the pills. So it wasn’t like, a one time thing.” Kent’s words falter for a moment - “And yeah. Rehab - rehabilitation. It’s - you know, called that for a reason. It’s good. It’ll be... good.”

“Yeah.” Jack nods once, and he focuses his eyes somewhere above Parse’s shoulder, on that green wallpaper, because he can’t look directly at him when he says this next part. “I’ll probably - be there a while.”

“Like... six months?”

“I mean. I was taking the meds for a while. More like... a year?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Jack starts again, but he can’t say it, not quite, “And, uh, visitors... aren’t really welcome.”

Kent smiles in disbelief, “Oh Jack, come on. You gotta have visitors when you’re in rehab.” And when Jack doesn’t continue, Kent quirks an eyebrow. “Aren’t your parents gonna visit? What kinda place are you going to, man?”

“When they did my psych eval -” No, no, that’s not how Jack wants to say this. “The doctor they brought in. He asked me some questions, about what happened before I... Not directly before, or anything. Long-term, what my life’s like. The league, our billet, my family, my teammates...” _you_. “Anyways. What people say - he says it's ‘an abnormally big stressor’. And the, uh, competition. Some of my relationships. He says I’ll have to take a step back.”

Kent’s brows now draw together. “What are you saying?”

“Our relationship is competitive. I shouldn’t... I shouldn’t be too involved with that.”

“The fuck you shouldn’t,” Kent forces out, voice made of steel. “We’ve been on that ice together for two years. That, what, means nothing now?”

“We’re on the same team, we go to the same practices. We have to be competitive! It’s not a _bad_ thing.”

Kent’s never liked placating-Jack. “You just fucking said it was.”

“Jesus, Kent. People have been putting us against each other for years - I’ve been torn to shreds more than once by total fucking strangers.”

“And I haven’t? If you’ve ever actually read what people say in those bullshit message boards, in their fucking debates, you always win.”

“Just because I’m Bad Bob reincarnate! You’re faster than me, you always have been -”

“- I’m the shortest fucking guy on the team -”

“- and you’re more - any team would be happy to have you. You _know_ what to say. You, honest to god, think a single guy on the Oceanic actually likes me?”

Kent’s flooded with so much indignation he nearly has an aneurysm: no - no one gets to talk about Jack Zimmermann like that - not even Jack Zimmermann. “I fucking do!” He explodes, “There’s not a single fucking thing I have that you don’t: your family’s fucking loaded, we _both_ got the memorial cup _together_. Shit, we’re apart of the same fucking team! Who fucking told you -”

“You’re getting drafted. First pick,” Jack interrupts. “You have that. You always will.”

“You would have been first pick. You know that’s not mine -”

“We both know you’re first pick because you fucking deserve to be first pick. And there’s not a damn thing that would change that, even if I hadn’t - fuck.” Jack has to bury his head in his hands.

“So? You. You go to rehab.” Kent’s pleading now, “You get better. You get drafted, first pick - I know it - for a different season.”

“You’ll always have it first.”

And Kent can’t argue with that; don’t get him wrong, Jack’s points are shit, but he doesn’t know _how_ to argue with someone who’s so - “You’re a fucking basket case, Jack.” And Jack recoils, like he’s been struck with a red-hot whip. Kent pushes on, “I can’t fucking tell you you’re wrong, because nothing you’re saying makes any fucking sense. This competition you think we have? It’s all in your fucking head. There can’t be a competition if I -” And this isn’t true. Jack Zimmermann has been Kent’s measuring stick since before he even met Jack - “It’s just some shit the media made up, for clicks and copies sold and fucking -”

Kent reaches down. He launches the newspaper back at Jack’s chest much, much harder than Jack had previously thrown it to him. “And you’re fucking buying into it.” Kent’s standing now, and there’s a silence between them as he comes off of his adrenaline high.

“I. Jack.” Kent feels tears prick at his eyes - third time this week. “If you didn’t. Fuck.” Kent’s blinking now, too fast. “You did this on purpose. That’s what you told me. Maybe you... Maybe you wanted to die,” and Kent’s voice is lifting, and his throat feels so tight. He huffs out another breath. “You know. Leave this precious planet, and everything in it, type shit. Which means. You know, including,” _me?_ Kent wants to step off his soapbox now. He wants a nap, honestly. But he can’t stop. “Or maybe you just couldn’t fucking handle the draft - even though you _know_ you’d be snatched up like a fucking hotcake. Become the face of a franchise.” And Kent can’t stand Jack’s insecurities in so many ways - he’d give anything to have it like Jack does. “You’d get everything a player could possibly _dream_ of. But no, because you’re an ungrateful. Piece. Of. Shit.” Kent’s hands emphasize this point. “You dropped out in the most fucking dramatic way possible, because even though the big bad media is so fucking _stressful_ for you, you couldn’t bear not making as many headlines as you possibly fucking could. Because you’re a fucking diva, Jack Zimmermann. You’re fucking crazy.”

And Jack’s crying now, in a shocked, silent way. Like he’s too surprised to even properly sob - it’s just tears. And Kent’s making enough noise for the both of them - he’s sniffling and breathing so, so heavy -

“But you’ve got one thing right. Jack.” Kent knows this is the beginning of the end - he knows what he needs to do, to rip off that band-aid Jack will only pick at. And god help him, if there’s a single thing Kent Parson would not do for Jack Zimmermann. “A team wouldn’t want you, really. An out-of-his-mind diva. They want your face, your stats. And you hide it pretty well, but they’d see the real you. The you that’s ruined this -” Kent throws his hands wildly between the two of them - “for some imaginary fucking competition?”

And now Kent’s tears fall. And Jack sniffs, once, loudly - “ _This_?” He asks it so quizzically, so derisively; he doesn’t go as far as to mock Kent’s hand gestures, but it’s a near thing. No, Jack keeps his hands where they are - curled around his knees. “Parse. That had an end-date. All I did was finish it a few days early.”

And god, does that throw Kent for a loop. “You don’t. You don’t get to fucking walk away from -” Kent can’t breathe now. He sounds like an asthmatic Usain Bolt and he hates himself for it.

“From what?”

Kent starts toward where Jack’s sitting on his bed. “Please.”

“Don’t touch me,” is all Jack says. And he doesn’t need to say any more, the venomous way he spits it, but he does anyway. “You should probably leave.”

And Kent does.

**_/ _X_ \\_**

If Alicia sees him crying on the way out, she doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, she just pulls him in; it’s not quite a hug, but she’s got both her hands on Kent’s shoulders, light and insistent. “Kent, honey -”

“Please, Mrs. Zimmermann.” Kent’s voice, for how blotchy his face is, is surprisingly clear. “Don’t be nice to me.”

Alicia frowns at that, but otherwise, doesn’t dignify it with a reply. “Kent. Tomorrow, at the draft. I want you to know - we’re gonna be watching and we’re so, so proud of you.”

Kent reaches up to where her hands are anchoring him: he has all the intent to brush them off, but the second he makes eye-contact he’s a goner. He tilts forward - his cheek lands where his right hand covers her’s. “They’re so lucky to have you,” he sighs.

Alicia properly pulls him into a hug with her other arm and her chin rests in the curve of his shoulder. “It’s gonna be over before you know it. They’re all just fighting to get you on their team. Okay? You don’t have to answer any of the questions the interviewers ask if you don’t want to.”

He’ll need to keep that in mind. He can’t believe he ever thought Draft Day would be one of the best days of his life - all they’ll be asking after is Jack. And what she says is so practiced - “You should be telling Jack this. I’m sorry.” Kent sniffles; Alicia’s arm tightens around his waist. She probably needs the hug more than he does.

“It’s good advice,” she says next to his ear, quietly. “All you boys should hear it.”

Kent mediates on that for a moment. “A lot of people divorce. When things like this happen to their kids.” He pulls his face back, so he can get a look at Alicia - his change in topic isn't as drastic as it seems but he hopes she doesn't take it the wrong way, all the same. “I know you’re mad. Bob was only trying to help.”

Alicia shakes her head with a smile: she pats Kent’s cheek and he feels like a little kid again. “If Jack wasn’t still here right now, we might be having a different conversation.” She looks so exhausted now: fragile and wistful and sad. “But if Jack can make it through this, so can we.”

**_/ _X_ \\_**

If you asked Kent, Q was entirely Zimmermann’s fault. You know, a workplace harassment, power imbalance type thing. Kent was the alternate to Jack’s captain, for fuck’s sake. The great prince, son of Big Bob, with those soft blue eyes - how was Kent supposed to say no?

Maybe if he’d never looked at Jack like that, never looked twice at him, they wouldn’t have ever started such a doomed thing. (Maybe if Kent wasn’t gay, he never would have been in a relationship with a man. Maybe if Kent weren’t human, he never would have made that particular friend.)

Kent’s being facetious, of course: him and Jack were too dangerous on-ice to be anything else off it - the thing was meant to crash and burn. And even if Kent hadn’t known this from the very beginning, he still wouldn’t change a single one of his decisions.

That said, Kent didn’t see the shit arcing through the air until after it had hit the fan: it’s copious and explosive and shameful, and Kent just knows, shit like this will probably have him fucked for the rest of his life.

They never were as sneaky as they thought they were. Yorke knew about it, even before ‘it’ had begun - even if ‘it’ was only an awkward fumble of limbs, or a meaningful little look, or one boy climbing into the bottom bunk when he can’t sleep. Kent once uncovered a trove of writing about them - and not of the ESPN variety.

“Hey, Zimms, look. They’re calling us 190?”

Jack ducks his head down a bit to get a better look at the loud, blocky computer monitor. “Those are our jersey numbers, right?” His eyes scan the page quick - _Parson and Zimmermann learn more about themselves than they bargained for_ ; _Parse x Zimms, changing room shenanigans_ ; _The Rimoski Oceanic’s top scorers find comfort in each other after a tough loss to the Islanders_. “Christ, this is worse than the sports analysts. Everyone knows Charlottetown sucks.”

Kent nods thoughtfully and scrolls. “They really should stop using our full names. It’s weird.” His eyes catch on something, and Jack blanches, “Hey, what’s rimming?”

“Kent! No - “ Jack dives for the mouse, pushing Kent and his rolling office chair far, far away. “We are _definitely_ clearing our history,” he says as he clicks off.

Kent just laughs from where he’s finally lost momentum - in the corner of the basement. “God, I wonder what they’d do if they found out they were right. They’d probably - “

“ - Oh Kent, no, they are _not_ right - “ Jack cuts in.

“Not about the rimming thing!” Kent yells back. Jack and Kent both freeze. There’s a beat of silence - thank god their billet family isn’t home. Kent starts his way back toward the computer, the tips his socked feet propelling the chair forward. ( _Some_ gangly bastard had jacked up the height of the chair and Kent, well, forgot to switch it back.) “I just mean. If they had any confirmation, they’d have nothing to write about.”

Jack’s too busy X-ing out of tabs to direct his eye-roll at Kent, but Kent sees it there, anyways. After a prolonged silence, Jack looks up from where his arms are braced on the desk and he’s leaning into the monitor. He realizes he’s meant to reply. “That would make it worse, dude.”

“No, I mean, just think about it. These guys - they make money off of speculation. If you just - “ Kent waves his hands, “Then it’s old news.”

Jack shocks himself by laughing - “Yeah, and then they compare every play you do to how many times you’ve listened to Britney Spears in the past week - “

“There is a _reason_ Womanizer is number one right now,” Kent says, but it does nothing to break the rant Jack’s started on.

“‘Oh, that left cut was a bit slow.’” Jack’s voice is just about as mocking as Kent’s ever heard it. “‘Think it has something to do with any late night activities, Walt?’” He nudges his imaginary colleague with an elbow - “‘Oh, Don, I don’t think we should talk about that on primetime. The _kids_ are tuning in - ’”

Normally, Jack’s so funny when he’s like this - animated and just a bit mean. But Kent just frowns and throws up his hands. “Jesus man, you get yourself a Calder before - “

“‘Jesus, Donnie, looks like he _fucked_ his way to that award, didn’t he?’”

“ - Maybe the Stanley Cup - “

“Christ, Kent, don’t. Ever. They’ll trade your ass as soon as the next season starts.”

Jack’s look of exasperation and concern narrows into suspicion when Kent crosses his arms and looks away. “Don’t. I mean it.”

Kent glances back over - they stare each other down, for just a second. Then Kent breaks out a smirk - “It sounds like Walt and Don have _never_ had their dick sucked. No wonder they’re such uptight assholes.”

Jack offers a smile in truce, but he doesn’t drop the subject, not completely. He does drop his little grin. “My dad says to keep it discreet - Girlfriends, everything. Seriously, Kent, don’t do it.”

Kent just nods, if it’ll get Jack to shut up and let him back on the computer.

**_/ _X_ \\_**

The night before the draft, Kent thinks back to every panic attack he’d ‘helped’ Jack through. It’s just as likely that he’d popped a pill once it was over and Kent’s soft words hadn’t turned the tide one way or the other. It wouldn’t be the first time Kent’s presence was entirely irrelevant. He turns over in his bed and tries to sleep.

**_/ _X_ \\_**

It’s a tough morning of lights and microphones in his face (“Who do you normally model your plays after?” “Can you comment on Jack Zimmermann for us?” “It’s draft day! How long have you looked forward to this?” “How does it feel to be up here without the other half of your duo, Jack Zimmermann?” “Word has it, Jack Zimmermann - “ “The Tribune would love to know, has Zimmermann -”), and a longer day filled with waiting. Kent can’t remember why he ever looked forward to this. It’s not as bad as it could be, of course - Kent Parson is called first.

The stage is so small, smaller than he’d expected. It doesn’t help that the back half of it is crowded with posters and sponsorships, and the other half is crowded with the managers who’ve snagged first round picks (they’re plastered with black suits and team-themed ties and wolfish smiles) and a tiny little podium.

Camera men swarm around at the foot of the stage and peek in around the corners; Kent gets the distinct feeling that, when they call him up, they mean for him to be a sacrifice. If they pushed him off the stage and into the mass off reporters and journalists, maybe he’d slow the quiet frenzy of the media horde.

Of course, when Kent reaches the stage - his place of honor - they just shake his hand and hand him his jersey. _Las Vegas_ , he reads. Instead of leading him to the edge of the stage and tripping him, they pat him on the back and smile. Kent searches for any sincerity in their grins.

“Looks like I better get used to hot summers and hot winters,” he tells the GMs with a wry smirk. They laugh. Suddenly, they’ve bracketed him on both sides - posing him for a picture already. There’s a flash and it’s over.

He pulls on his jersey - red and black proclaim him _#90_ of the Aces - even though it’s disgustingly large on him. Kent tells himself that’s how it's meant to be. He’s meant to wear this only when packed with pads. But the fabric droops around his shoulders, and gathers at his wrists and elbows, and he knows it was meant for someone else. They snap another picture - there’s a flash and it’s over. He doesn’t know why he ever worried so much about it - it’s over before he knows it.

His dad and sister are the only one’s there to greet him once he escapes the Bell Center. His shitty little flip phone is free of congratulatory texts. That shouldn’t hurt him, but it does.

**_/ _X_ \\_**

Jack looks between the hardcover in his hands - _The NHL: the Official Illustrated History_ \- and the smirking blond boy who's just thrown it into his lap. Kent’s trying to temper a grin, but if Jack can tell, then Kent’s doing it badly.

It's late December and even Coach is in a festive mood - the bus is decked out in silver garland and Jack’s been suffering through holiday music for the last hour. Clearly, this mood has gone and infected Kent, if he’s run off and gotten Jack a gift. Jack still can’t puzzle out why his forward is so self satisfied about it, though. Jack’s eyes narrow when he opens to the cover page - _To: Zimms_ , he reads; _flip to pg. 58_.

Kent’s taken his unofficial window seat next to Jack, and looks on expectantly. Jack stares him down for a moment before doing as told. He’s confronted with a recipe to make an authentic, historically accurate hockey puck. “Cow dung? Really, dude?”

Kent shakes his head, stubbornly refusing to open his mouth. Instead, he points - _turn to pg. 5_. Jack rolls his eyes.

“Oh, the Stanley Cup used to be 7 inches tall. Amazing.” Jack tries his best deadpan, but a touch of genuine interest leaks out. His eyes dart to the bottom of the page - _turn to pg. 100_.

“The first million dollar contract. Cool...” Jack’s back to looking between Kent and the book, trying to figure out his angle. While he’s at it, he flips back one page, per the scribbled directions.

Kent seems to burst at the seems - he pulls something from his back pocket. “Dude, check it.” In his hand is a little silver mobile phone. “My dad finally got me a phone. My number’s in that book.”

Jack blinks for a second, then throws his head back and groans, “I want to throw this at you, honestly.” Kent’s good mood can’t be dampened, however, so Jack figures he’ll get over it. He lifts his head back up, “Still. A Nokia. Nice.”

“Yeah, Christmas definitely came early.” Kent’s actually letting himself grin now, teeth and all, instead of trying to keep it under a close lipped smile.

Jack moves to cushion the back of his next with two hands, interlocked. “You think your sister will be back by then?”

Kent wavers at that, a little thrown by the change in subject. “Um. Probably not. She’s getting on a roadie with the Blades.”

Jack bites his lip and lets himself to think for a second. “Wanna spend Christmas with us?”

“What, with Bad Bob Zimmermann? And your model mom?” Kent eyebrows are high, and his mouth won’t close.

“Yeah,” Jack smiles. “It’ll be fun. A real Canadian Christmas.”

Kent lets himself laugh. “Ok, sure,” He wiggles the phone in his hand with a grin. “Let me go text my dad.”

It takes Kent forever. Half of Jack’s chirps are Nokia related for the rest of the season.

**_/ _X_ \\_**

A week after the draft, after Kent becomes a bonafide NHL player, he turns 18. He’s gotten everything he ever wanted - his name on a national roster, a (quite possibly) multi-million dollar contract coming his way, the chance to do what he’s good at and never have to worry about anything else again - and some things he didn’t, like being put down as first pick. He wants to vomit. Kent Parson is legally an adult and he’s gotten everything he’s ever wanted and he doesn’t have a clue what to do about it.

Right now he’s on the roof of his childhood home. His dad drinks his beer while Kent and his sister’s go mostly untouched. They’re all stuffed with store-bought birthday cake and busy watching fireworks. It makes sense Kent shares his birthday with that of, quite possibly, one of the best nationwide parties in America (he is, after all, a total riot.) It's true, he doesn't have a single idea what he's gonna do, especially from now to September, when training starts, but right now he’s lying down and rating each burst using the five star scale, and that seems like a pretty good course of action. Overall? The show's a solid four.

“A four and a half, at least,” his dad says before climbing back into the house through the dormer window.

Things go quiet for a bit after that.

“Now I get to tell everyone I’m the one who inspired my little brother to go out for hockey. And now he’s on a national team,” Katie announces from where she sits. She’s proud. “I get to tell them he’s making more money than any of us will ever see in a lifetime.” And a little resentful. “So that’s why I didn’t bother getting you a gift.” Above all, she’s still a little shit. “Happy birthday, Kent.”

Kent shares a smile with her. “You know what would be a great gift?”

“I’m not doing your laundry,” Katie shoots him a look. “I can’t believe you still don’t know how.”

“Damn!” Kent almost chokes on his sudden laugh. “Wait! No! I actually did learn. This spring.” He coughs. “But I forgot.”

Katie learns forward and flicks him in the forehead. “Good luck in Vegas with your top-notch survival skills.”

Kent swats her hand away but doesn't say anything, expecting Katie to fill the space. When she doesn't, Kent picks up the slack. “Nah, but I could use a road tripping buddy.”

“To Vegas? Oh my god. Stop proving me right when I'm roasting you. Please. Take a flight.”

“To Montreal," Kent cuts in, effectively snowing her playful streak. He licks his lips before continuing, "A friend of mine left a lot of his stuff with me in our billet.”

She hums thoughtfully and both of them just sit, comfortable with each other and silent spaces in a way Jack and Kent never could be. Katie knows only bits and pieces about this 'friend', but she knows enough not to pry, not to accuse, not to question. “I don’t think we’re getting any sleep tonight, do you?”

Kent hasn’t been sleeping well for the past two weeks, but especially tonight, he’s wired. He shakes his head. "I won't be."

Katie nods to herself before standing and offering Kent her hand. “If we start now, we’ll get there by morning. We can take shifts driving.”

**_/ _X_ \\_**

The box on the Zimmermann’s steps has t-shirts and dad-band CD’s and old game-day rosters and photos from Q and one gently used tome on the NHL crammed into it; the cardboard flaps have _To: Zimms_ scrawled on top of it it. Kent knows Jack would sooner burn everything inside than take a look, but he figures it's at least one less thing he has to carry with him (and if Kent saves a thing or two, well, no one's keeping track, are they?)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So! Wow! I actually stayed on track for a project - I'm pleased as punch with myself. If you wanna say hi, I'm [@iwatchedhockeyonce](iwatchedhockeyonce.tumblr.com) on tumblr. (I'm a big fan of making friends.) If you're at all interested in reblogging this, [ go for it!](https://iwatchedhockeyonce.tumblr.com/post/169410800333/the-rise-and-fall-of-the-parsonzimmermann-duo)
> 
> That said, I'm now going to go overboard with sharing all my research:  
> \- Yes, in-comic Jack was in Q and now he's playing for an American college. [The NCAA irl isn't a fan of that](http://www.juniorhockey.com/news/news_detail.php?news_id=79802), but I thought I'd thrown in that tidbit because 1) it's cool and 2) it really ups the stakes. Maybe...Jack plays for the Q, but doesn't accept the stipend, so technically he isn't playing pro?  
> \- [The Book](https://www.amazon.com/Official-Illustrated-Nhl-History-Original/dp/1572433442)  
> \- If you want more on Alicia and Bob's referenced rift, I was inspired by whoacanada's [amazing drabble](https://whoacanada.tumblr.com/post/163692940287/prompt-alicia-almost-leaves-bob-after-jacks). Like, it's good. Really good. I Love Mama Alicia.  
> \- Kent's sister plays in the Canadian Women's Hockey League! Technically the Boston Blades came to be in 2010, two years before this fic, but, uh....the name was cool? (To be honest, I don't see why the CWHL and NWHL aren't just combined.)  
> \- Kent's phone number as the (585) area code, so [he's _from_ NY](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/post/166011866787), but not NYC (you know, the cool part.) I like to imagine he tells everyone on the Aces he's a bonafide New Yorker, though (so he can get away with being a little rude.)  
>  \- Nokias! Old desktop computers! "Party in the USA"! I was just trying to see _how_ dated I could make this fic. 
> 
> So that's about it. I _love_ comments and I'm open to making a part two (with some patater) once I find the time. Thanks so much for reading!


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